Thou Shalt Have No Other Muses Before Me
by Stalking Severus Snape
Summary: When my muse, Severus Snape, is away, I end up being inspired by another only to have my real muse return unexpectedly. It is too long to be a drabble and too short to be a normal fic, so it's just a cute little ficlet instead.


_A short little fic-let I just wrote. I hope other writers/artists and their muses get a kick out of it._

**Title**:_Thou Shalt Have No Other Muses Before Me!_  
**Author**: Ami E. Bowen  
**Summary**: When my muse is away, I end up being inspired by another only to have my real muse return unexpectedly.  
**Rated**: PG-13  
**Warning**: Self-insertion. (Of course)  
**Registered Muse**: Severus Snape  
**Disclaimer**: All Harry Potter characters belong to J.K.Rowling.

**Thou Shalt Have No Other Muses Before Me!**  
By Ami E. Bowen

"What the hell are you doing?" The voice behind me startled me so that I jumped slightly in my chair and paused in my typing. I had a blanket settled across my lap as it was rather cold at this hour and a cup of tea steadily cooling on the desktop beside me. _Twinning's Vanilla_. So good.

I turned around in my chair and glared at my muse, who came and went as he pleased...rather annoyingly, (if you asked me), but, before I could open my mouth he continued; "It's three in the bloody morning, Ami! Shouldn't you be in bed?"

I shrugged and said; "I was inspired."

I lifted my fingers back to the keyboard and ran my eyes down the text I was currently working on. My muse, Severus Snape, (once of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as perhaps the best Potions Master they had ever seen), leaned over my shoulder and began to skim what I'd written so far. I paused. I can never work when someone is reading as I write.

"Do you _mind_?" I asked, testily.

He stood up and loomed over me. I didn't have to look to see his scowl. He was wondering who or what had inspired me since he had been away on some sort of muse-ish mission or whatever. "Let me see that." he moved to push me out of the chair, but I quickly hit the computer's off-switch. I would lose my work, I knew, but I could rewrite it. It may not be as it was originally written, but sometimes that is for the best, where writing is concerned. However, now that I'd acted in the defense, Snape _knew_ I was up to something he probably wouldn't find amusing. Even if I did.

"Ami, you _know_ I can just force you to tell me what that was all about..." he said, his voice dangerously low as he tapped a finger against the side of my head to get his point across. Fuck. I forgot. _That_. Why did I have to have a damned Legilimence as a muse? I sighed wearily.

"Promise you won't get upset?" I asked, my own voice barely audible, yet I knew that he heard me. Snape may be many things, but unobservant he is not.

He reached for one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table, (which was inches from my computer desk), and pulled it forward, lowering himself into it as he stared at me with a quirked brow. "Now, suppose you tell me, of your own free will, just who's been doing _my_ job, lately?"

One thing you must understand about muses. They are highly territorial. And most, if not all, have a considerable amount of pride in what they do. They don't like seeing their places upsurped suddenly, even if they _do_ go off on weeks-long expiditions. Oh, I undertand they have other clients that need tending to. Hell, my _own_ muse can't even _count_ his entire clientile. Well, he probably _could_, but it would take him a long time. So, I know his time with me is limited.

Still, it didn't stop me from blurting out; "You were gone for so fucking long, Severus...What was I supposed to do? And then, when _she_ knocked on the door and had all her ideas...okay, so some were really corny...but, still..."

"Silence!" he hissed suddenly, cutting off my flow of rather incoherance speech, "Slow down, Ami. Take a breath. Now. Tell me, _who_ are you talking about?"

"You haven't promised you won't get upset, yet..." I said, stalling, I knew...

"You haven't been writing any erotica featuring myself paired with some rather dubious partners, have you?" he asked this with a slight smirk and in a tone that told me he was half-joking. But, at my averted gaze, he realized he'd pretty much hit the nail on the head.

"Oh, gods. I wasn't even _serious_. You _have_ been...haven't you?" I didn't say anything, but inwardly wished to get back to the story I had currently been working on before his arrival.

"Please, just tell me it's not Potter..._anyone_ but Potter..." I glanced over to to see that he had swiveled the chair around and was now leaning his elbows on the table with his head in his hands as if he'd suddenly aquired a throbbing migraine. I was about to hotly deny that I'd ever written anything about him and _The-Boy-Who-Gets-Way-Too-Much-Attention_ and more than likely never will, when I heard a familar 'popping' sound coming from the vicinity of the small kitchen.

"Oooh!" A dreamy, trembling voice cried out as a woman dressed in flowing fabric of various hues; shawls drapped over her shoulders, and layers of gauzy material exited the kitchen, "Something in the _beyond_ has summoned me to your aid, my dear..." she paused, her dark eyes wide with surprise, (or it could be just the coke-bottle glasses she sported), when she spied Snape sitting at the table. She looked from him to me and back again. "Wh-what is _this_?" she asked, in her floaty voice, "I thought I was under your employ for at least the next week..." Snape, hardly stupid, was on his feet in an instant, his face was livid.

"You replaced me with _her_!" he cried, outraged, pointing a long, slender finger at Sybill Trelawny, who stood in the kitchen archway as though unsure of what to do, "You do realize that she's not even registered!"

"No! No! It's not _like_ that!" I cried. I knew Trelawny wasn't a registered muse. It was the reason I was paying her under the table. The chair I had been recently sitting in fell onto it's side as soon as I stood up. The reason for this was due to the chair missing a wheel and being off-balance. I kept an old phonebook under that leg of the chair to keep it steady most of the time. Sometimes it gets knocked over, though, especially when people are jumping suddenly out of it. "We just started talking and she had some good ideas and well...I wasn't exactly sure when you would return and so..."

"Let me guess..." he said, and I found my back pressed against the metal front door. The doorknob was jutting rather painfully against my hip. Snape didn't seem to notice as he placed both hands against the door on either side of my head. He glared down into my eyes, "One thing just led to another? Is _that_ what you were about to say?"

"Well...uh...sorta..." I mumbled, and suddenly ducked under his left arm. I rushed forward and slipped behind Hogwarts' Divination professor, who seemed as if she were suffering some kind of seizure as she stared right through Snape and swayed gently back and forth. "But, she's not really my muse. _You_ are! I swear! I only used her once! And it didn't mean anything!"

"Really." he snapped, (it wasn't a question), and he continued to scowl at me, "You _know_ we had a deal. You _signed_ the contract. Did you not? We both did." In his anger his words were more clipped than usual. As though he were taking percise care not to blow up in my face. I expected his teeth were clenched as he awaited my answer.

I nodded. Standard procedure, of course. Everyone knew the muse-artist laws and by-laws; and as was required before an artist could aquire a muse, he or she had to read through them very carefully before either the muse or the artist could put thier John Handcocks on any legal documentation.

Snape was shaking his head at me; "You are in violation of our contract, you understand..."

I struggled to make amends; "Severus, Please, listen to me... I _swear_ to you I'll never employ another muse again!" Seeming to realize she was no longer needed, Sybill vanished with a another popping sound. "I promise. Please..."

"I could take this _upstairs_, you know," he said, in his best threatening tone, folding his arms slowly over his chest, "You'd never be able to employ another muse again."

"I know. I'm sorry..." I cried, I really didn't want to lose him. He was very, _very_ good at his job. The most professional muse I'd ever had the pleasure of working with. In a last-ditch effort, I fell to my knees and grabbed at his robes; clutching them tightly as I expressed my grief and basically just groveled at his feet.

"Oh, get up." he said, reaching down to yank my arm upwards, standing me back on my feet in front of him. He brushed off his robes where my fingers had touched him. Other than in my writing, my muse wasn't keen on his personal space being invaded. "You're making a fool of yourself. I had every intention of staying on... I just wanted to teach you a lesson. I won't share my position with anyone else."

I smiled. I couldn't help it. I was so relieved! Do you _know_ how long and tiresome it is to find the perfect muse? I mean the paperwork and long lines are bad enough, but then you have to deal all the red-tape and the hoop-jumping. I spent three weeks filling out, mailing forms and going to interview after interview before I was _finally_ matched up with the perfect muse.

It was stupid, in retrospect, I knew, to risk him walking. I had the urge to hug him, but stopped myself. It was one of the first things he'd had me sign before he'd agree to work for me. Actually, he'd had the paperwork drawn up directly after I'd tackled him and nearly knocked him down with an overly-excited embrace on our very first meeting. I told him that I agreed and that, until such a time as our arrangement came to an end, I would refrain from hiring any other muses.

"But," I said, and shrugged, heading towards the closed-door that led to the carpeted stairwell up to my bedroom, (I was tired and wanted to go to sleep. The urge to write had left me for the time being), "If it's any consulation...I was thinking about you the whole time." I gave my best sheepish smile, which altered into a yawn that I covered with my hand.

"Oh, that makes me feel _so_ much better," he replied with his famous dead-pan sarcasm, "Go to bed. Now."

With that he turned gracefully on his heel and vanished in flash of magic and a blur of billowy dark material. I turned, opened the stairwell door, and thought, (as I climbed the stairs to bed), that I'd be seeing my muse again very soon.

**_Fin_**


End file.
